


own little, pack light

by lein



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bullying, Character Study, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Minor Injuries, Trans Keith (Voltron), Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lein/pseuds/lein
Summary: His name sounds nicer now, echoed in the metal walls of the castle, warmer and more natural, like it isn’t a cruel joke he’s force-feeding the world. Keith likes it more, sounds it out in his bedroom, wraps his mouth around it like it’s important.
He’s Keith, the red paladin, a defender of the universe. Shiro’s beside him and so is Lance. So are Pidge and Hunk, Allura and Coran. This, he thinks, toes curling in his boots, this is a family. 
This is more of a family than he’s ever really had.
He likes it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i've. never really written anything before with trans characters, i mean as a transboy i imprint onto a lot of characters but i think voltron is the first series i've actually wanted to make content about it?? 
> 
> i have a lot of feelings about trans keith, i have a lot of feelings in general about keith, mostly bc he's the one character in voltron that i honestly relate to. 
> 
> this started with more lighthearted idea and ended up morphing into this bc i have no impulse control rip me. like i went in with a plan and a half written opening and about 600 words into this weirdly emotionally charged thing i realized i hadn't written a lick of what i already had penned out. which is fitting for a fic about keith i guess.
> 
> so uh, whatever the fuck this is i guess
> 
> edit: anyways have [some sketches ](http://fay-fluorite.tumblr.com/post/152137655766)

Ever since he was little, Keith has had trouble adjusting to new places. Volleyed around as many places as he was, he thinks he should’ve gotten used to it and, physically, he did. 

Own little, pack light, don’t get attached to anything you can’t carry. 

Emotionally? Not so much.

Quiet, distant, weird, were only a small list of the things Keith remembers being called.

He remembers first grade, remembers getting his face pushed into the dirt because of it. _“You think you’re better than us, don’t you?”_ his classmates sneered, ugly child mouths pulled up at the corners in a cruel mockery of smiles. He had blinked, felt the burn of tears in the back of his eyes. Keith remembers sitting there in the field behind the school for hours. 

No one had picked him up that day.

He moved shortly after that. New town, new family.

In fifth grade, Keith gets his first scar. Threaded around the skin of his ankle, it sat red and angry. He hadn’t cried, instead inhaled a breathy “ _ oh,” _ as they pulled glass out of his skin. 

Keith remembers the experience well, remembers offhandedly correcting a classmate, telling her he wasn’t, never was, a girl, remembers the crunch of the bottle as it slipped out of his hands, remembers the look on her face as she pushed him into the wall.

Keith remembers pain.

No one talked to him after that except a boy with sharp eyes, a round jaw. His smile sad as he told Keith the only way to fight fire was with more fire.

He starts middle school in a new state with a new family. They refuse to call him his name, refuse to let him cut his hair so he did it himself, locked in the bathroom with a pair of sewing scissors his foster mother kept in the hall closet. He hacked it away, a real physical weight off his shoulders, until the only thing his new family could do was take him to get it cleaned up.

Keith remembers puberty hard. The feeling of pain coupled with dizziness, the feeling of something being wrong. He remembers crying in the dressing room age thirteen, fingers clutched in the fitted underwire bra. He remembers scrubbing his eyes raw, buying a pack of sports bras one size too small, and pretending. 

Keith remembers pretending, pretending the sound of his birth name hadn’t made him want to vomit, pretending the pronouns used so casually and without malice didn’t sit heavy in the base of spine.

And after the pretending starts to wear thin, Keith remembers surviving.

His family starts to give, slow and slight. They try hard to understand and Keith revels in the small victories. He piles them up, determined and steady, until the loose ends make a mountain. 

High school is better. He fights, fists pressed tight against his thighs. With words carefully rehearsed, Keith fights to get his name printed clear on his diploma, fights to walk in the right colours. 

Small victories, he reminds himself as he sends in his acceptance letter to the Galaxy Garrison. They reply with promises to keep his birth name on official documents only until he can change it legally.

Keith buys his first binder the day after he graduates and, for the first time in his life, he feels like himself inside and out. He buzzes the back of his head before moving into his dorm and the absence of hair on the back of his neck feels weirdly empty.

Shiro, Keith meets him his first year in the Garrison. He’s older, his senior by two years. Keith likes the weight of Shiro’s hand when it presses into the small of his back. He likes Shiro’s voice, his eyes, his smile. Keith likes Shiro, his first real friend.

Shiro picks up things about Keith that Keith didn’t even know about himself. He helps Keith learn his own boundaries, helps set guidelines on how to interact with others. “ _ Patience yields focus _ ,” he tells Keith and barely bats an eyelash when Keith tells him his secret.

Kerberos.

It’s dark, his back on the mattress, eyes on the ceiling, when Shiro first brings it up. A mission he’s piloting with a fellow cadet and his father. He sounds excited and Keith finds himself caught up in the cadence of his voice, the wild look in his brown eyes.

He leaves winter break. Keith presses his thumb into the amber birthmark on the inside of Shiro’s left wrist when they say goodbye. Shiro smiles and smiles and smiles, excitement reaching his eyes, curling them soft against his cheeks. Keith misses him fierce.

There’s a boy in Keith’s lit class second semester that catches his attention, a cargo pilot Keith thinks. His hair is sheared short, edges curled around the bottoms of his ears, it reminds Keith that he hasn’t cut his in months. He remembers the boy’s skin like the grains of sand out in the desert, remembers the dark beauty mark against the weight of his ocean blue eyes. His grin is sly, gaze sharp and cutting in the stuffy Arizona air. His voice is tenor and musical, Keith likes the way it threads high on the lilt of his laugh.

Keith remembers everything but his name, lost in the hum of the sterile fluorescent light

The news, Keith remembers the news, hears it pump directly into his bloodstream. Pilot error, they tell him like it’s the truth and not just black sludge pouring out of their mouths. They say it the same way Keith remembers his foster families wired their voices around his birth name, toxic and wrong. 

That night Keith slides the key Shiro gave him into the lock of his dorm room and takes everything he can, his clothes, his pillows, his memory. Keith palms the knife wrapped in pretty, pretty paper on Shiro’s desk. His name, the right one, is penned neat into the side of it. 

He packs it, all of it, into a bag.

Keith closes himself off, forgets the boy in his lit class, forgets the boy from fifth grade but doesn’t forget his words. Fight fire with fire, he thinks, repeats over and over until the set of his jaw is rough and Commander Iverson is staring at him with beady little eyes, hot ash pouring out of the holes in his face.

Keith breaks. 

“With all due respect, sir,” he says and listens to the beating of his heart. “Go fuck yourself.”

He walks out, grabs what he can, own little, pack light, shoulders the bag from Shiro’s room and steals a ship on his way out. He doesn’t look back.

It’s a miracle, Keith thinks, to find that little shack out in the middle of the desert. It’s small and far enough from the Garrison, far enough from anything that he thinks he’ll be able to survive without getting caught. 

The place is cozy, it’s got a generator for power and some basic amenities, supplies in the side shed. There’s running water, just barely, from a tank out back. He takes rides out into town for water and gas every other month and stutters every time Sandy, the old woman who runs the convenience store, slides a fresh beverage into his hands and tells him it’s free of charge. In return, Keith fixes things that are broken, her window, her car. 

Keith likes the space, likes the freedom. He likes the way this little shack in the middle of the desert feels more like home than any house he’s ever lived in.

It’s hard sometimes, being away from people. He forgets how to hold himself, how to talk to others. He speaks now just to hear the sound of a voice. He misses Shiro like an extra limb.

Keith walks the perimetre of his shack in just his pants and boots when he first feels it. His hair is greased back with sweat in the late afternoon light. He pulls it back into a small bun and follows his instincts. He searches and searches, hands slipping against the controls of his stolen bike, until it pulls him under. 

The caves are arched high over his head, glittering beautiful in the light of day. Keith spends the day with his hands curled into the line of rock, fingers pressed into the dips and curves of lions.

Keith logs it, every word the lions say, every story they tell. 

Clues, they’re giving clues, he realizes. Something’s coming, something big. Keith waits with bated breath to see what they bring.

Months later, something falls from the sky.

Keith feels his heart shift and pull. He thinks of the lions, of Shiro, and races out to meet whatever comes.

Breaking in is easy, knocking out the guards even easier. Like breathing, he turns to the figure strapped to the table. 

“Shiro?”

Keith thinks he’s hallucinating at first but the line of his jaw is the same as ever. It’s Shiro but his hair is white with shock, a scar penned thick into the bridge of his nose, his right arm is gone, new one in its place. Keith heaves the knife Shiro left him in his palm, feels the warm weight of the hilt and slides it into the leather restraints without hesitation. He heaves Shiro’s arm, the human one, over his shoulder.

“Nope,” someone says around the mouth of the tent. It’s the first voice he’s heard in a month that wasn’t himself. It’s a boy, the beauty mark under his left eye looks vaguely familiar. He’s flanked by two others. “No, you-” Keith watches him shove the gurney aside, finger raised. “No, no, no. No, you don’t.” He shakes his head and slides Shiro’s other arm over his own shoulder. “I’m saving Shiro.”

Keith feels his face scrunch up as he works his mouth around a full sentence for the first time in weeks. “Who are you?” he asks, half glad he doesn’t trip over any words.

The boy bristles. “Who am I? Uh, the name’s Lance,” he says as if the name is supposed to mean anything to Keith. “We were in the same class at the Garrison.”

Keith tries to think. So many memories he left hanging on the inside of his dorm room door the minute he heard the words pilot error. “Really? Are you an engineer?”

“No! I’m a pilot! We were like rivals,” Lance says and it’s clicks, sudden. The boy in his lit class, the one with the ocean eyes and hair like waves. “Y’know, Lance and Keith, neck and neck.”

Keith doesn’t think about the way their names sound next to each other, doesn’t think about the way Lance’s voice curls around the beginning of his name like it belongs. “Oh, wait,” he says instead and swallows. “I remember you. You’re a cargo pilot.”

Lance’s face falls, expression sour. “Well, not anymore. Fighter class now, thanks to you washing out.”

“Well,” Keith says. “Congratulations.”

* * *

Fourteen months, two weeks, and five days. 

That’s how long Keith spent in the shack alone in the desert. Shiro says he can tell, he says Keith was louder in the Garrison. Keith honestly can’t remember if he’s right or not.

Shiro’s still Shiro in the way that he’s still Keith. They’ve changed over the past year, for better or for worse.

His name sounds nicer now, echoed in the metal walls of the castle, warmer and more natural, like it isn’t a cruel joke he’s force-feeding the world. Keith likes it more, sounds it out in his bedroom, wraps his mouth around it like it’s important.

He’s Keith, the red paladin, a defender of the universe. Shiro’s beside him and so is Lance. So are Pidge and Hunk, Allura and Coran. This, he thinks, toes curling in his boots, this is a family. 

This is more of a family than he’s ever really had.

He likes it.

The first thing Keith makes when Pidge and Hunk show off their newest project, a machine that makes clothing, is a new binder. It feels nice, tighter than his old one but still flexible. Keith feels good when he wears it. His shirt smooths right over the curve of his abdomen. In it, Keith feels like he can do anything.

Keith wears it when he needs to hear people talk. 

Shiro’s quieter now, like Keith, he talks when he needs to and listens when he doesn’t. He doesn’t speak much of what happened in the near seventeen months he was in captivity, Keith doesn’t expect him to. He speaks of his team then and now, trades stories with Pidge about their family and offers a free hand to anyone that needs it. He lectures Keith on proper binding care because he knows Keith likes the mobility he has in his binder better than without. Keith appreciates the gesture.

Hunk is kind, he speaks of anything he can think of, food mostly, celebrations and dishes he remembers in rambling sentences. Keith likes listening to him. He talks sometimes of tech, speculates about how the ship runs with Coran, grins when he sticks his hands into the panel of another project. 

Pidge’s fingers wind themselves against the keys of their laptop. They speak of the worlds they’ve visited together and of Kerberos. Keith wishes they had met earlier. He would’ve given anything, all that time ago, to have even one person believe him. Together they joke, plot little pranks to play against Lance and high five when they inevitably work.

Keith doesn’t speak to Allura or Coran much but he hears them nonetheless. They talk about their home, a place that no longer exists. He wishes he could understand but the closest thing to home Keith’s ever had was the shack out in the desert, warm sand and empty, empty silence. Keith listens and imagines and tries his best to respond when they ask about Earth.

Lance. 

Lance tries to fill any silence he can, voice smooth and calming when he rounds it out into a story. He fights and eggs Keith on with a smile that loses its edge the longer they live together. He tells Keith whatever comes to mind, stories of home, recaps of old movies he’s seen too many times, sights they’ve both encountered. He speaks of oceans and family and things Keith had only once dreamed about. 

They sit together late at night when Keith can’t sleep and Lance feels restless, ankles close enough to touching that Keith thinks of fifth grade and sticky glass bottles. 

Keith thinks about telling the rest of the team, his family, about his past but it never comes up. He’s survived, they all have. Keith wants to keep this more than anything in his entire life. It’s not really a secret anymore, Keith would tell them if they asked. He nearly told them after Pidge’s confession but stopped when his hands started to shake, his heart pounded at the thought of their reactions. 

He’s not afraid of being rejected, Keith’s afraid they’ll treat him differently.

* * *

The other side of the wormhole is quiet.

Keith can’t hear, can’t see. His body aches and Red isn’t responding. She’s quiet, deathly quiet as they fly through the void of space alone.

His right leg is twisted halfway under the display. It’s broken, Keith knows it. He’s broken it before, seventh grade, pushed over a fence during a school wide game of manhunt. 

This is worse.

He’s in the middle of nowhere, more lonely than he’s ever been before. His head hurts from where it slammed back against the pilot’s chair, helmet knocked off in the warp. 

Keith feels cold and empty. This is the first time in months he’s been without people, without sound. 

It’s jarring.

The fourteen months he spent in the desert were never this quiet.

Keith’s head throbs, his breathing is laboured. 

The last thing he sees before going under is red, red, red.

Keith wakes to the pull of his lion falling downward, the ache in his bones. She’s hit an orbit on a relatively orange looking planet. No one fires at him as the ship free falls faster which is probably the best thing that could happen outside of getting picked up by the castle. 

His head hurts even worse now, a concussion perhaps, minor at worst. His leg burns to the point of being numb. The floor is slippery and red when he attempts to pull himself back into the seat. Keith breathes, shallow and fast, and squeezes his eyes closed. Once he gets used to the pain, he’ll try to find a first aid kit and inspect his wounds.

Keith hopes the landing won’t hit too harsh.

Red lights up, dim, through his eyelids. Keith feels her stutter alive enough to slow their descent slightly.

Stubborn, temperamental, they called her. The same thing they said about him at the Garrison. “Good kitty,” Keith mumbles and huffs through a pained laugh. His voice sounds rough and raw, distorted in Red’s cockpit. 

Keith is tired.

* * *

The desert was never like this. 

Fourteen months he spent there but it was never like this. He had Sandy, had a place to keep his own. Keith hadn’t known what it was like to feel so empty, to spend his days waiting for someone to rescue him. 

He’s alone. 

The planet he landed on is full of orange trees, red grass like sand, and seemingly nothing else. It’s swelteringly hot. Keith hasn’t travelled far out of Red in the days, weeks, months he’s been here. His leg still hurts though it’s easier to ignore with the makeshift splint. He doesn’t eat well, tries to make the rations last as long as possible. He prides himself, at least, for packing extra supplies, things like pads and a small blanket he kept just in case. 

Red speaks to him in burbles. She still can’t fly, still turns off every so often, but she tries her best to comfort him. Keith appreciates it just like Red appreciated his grand attempt to mop blood off of the floor with a giant orange leaf. It hadn’t gone well but she had made a noise akin to laughter, a nice musical sound filtered directly into his mind. Keith remembered it had taken a bit of the edge off of the situation.

The day after they landed Keith had stripped out of his armor, slipped halfway out of his suit with shaking hands. His binder lies shredded at the mouth of the cockpit from where he panicked and cut it off.

His bodysuit is gross. Covered in blood and sweat, he keeps the bottom part of it fashioned around his waist as long as he can stand to. He can’t slip it down his injured leg without pain so he tears the material at his thighs and rolls away the rest. Keith ties together a couple of leaves with some miscellaneous wires Red assures him aren’t explicitly needed and wraps it around his waist in an attempt to maintain some decency.

Keith hasn’t cut his hair since he was back on the castle. It slips over his shoulders like water now, he can feel the ends brush against the bottom line of his shoulder blades. It’s greased back and covered in leaves. He hasn’t been able to find a body of anything remotely similar to water close enough to Red. There isn’t anything close to rain here.

Keith misses Earth more than ever now. 

He misses his shack, the castle. He misses Shiro, Pidge and Hunk. He misses Allura and Coran. Keith misses Lance the most. 

He misses their fights, the petty comments thrown his way for no purpose more than riling him up. He misses the sound of Lance’s voice heavy over the comms, light in the castle, filtered through windows made of stars. He misses the flirting, the overconfidence he exudes. 

Lance is the glue that holds the team together comment after comment. He makes Shiro smile, laugh, more now and it’s nice. It’s so nice seeing Shiro act his age again after all the shit he’s been through. For all the garbage Lance says, it’s empty without it. 

Keith hopes, he hopes that they’ve found each other. He hopes they’ll find him.

Until then, he’ll survive.

A few months pass, Keith sheers his hair close to the back of his head with his bayard and lets it grow back out to curl around his shoulders, soft. His leg has healed as much as it can without proper medical attention. It gives out occasionally if he walks too long. 

His rations run thin but he supplements them with fresh fruit that taste vague of guava and lavender; they’re better cooked. His cycles are irregular at best, Keith tries his best to budget supplies without panicking.

Keith finds a liquid gold waterfall a little ways out from Red. He brings his helmet with him the next time he comes, dips it in the pool. It doesn’t erode the metal, runs clean when he runs a quick check with Red’s working sensors. Keith considers it a win and jumps in. The water is thicker and viscous, more opaque, than it is on Earth but cooler than the air outside. It’s refreshing, dunking his head underneath the surface. Keith tries to do it at least once a week, brings the tattered remains of usable clothing with him to wash.

He spends the rest of his days in Red’s underbelly as she tries to communicate what’s off. 

Keith is underneath the waterfall, gold plastering his hair down across his back, when he hears voices. He nearly doesn’t register them, faint over the roar of water. They’re familiar and welcome and Keith can feel his eyes starting to water. His leg buckles at the edge of the pool and he barely manages to catch his arms on the bank.

“-ith?”

Shiro. It’s Shiro. Keith would recognize his voice anywhere. Flanked on either side by Pidge and Lance, Shiro turns the line of trees. Hunk is close, his large hand curled around Shiro’s shoulder. They’re all clothed in their casual outfits. Keith cries.

“Keith!” Shiro spots him. He breaks from the line and rushes towards the shoreline; he’s followed close by the others. Keith wraps his arms around Shiro neck and pulls him into a tight and soggy hug. He laughs, it’s thick and syrupy wet.

“We were so scared, man,” Hunk breathes from his place next to Shiro. Lance is leaning over him, blue eyes bright in the red orange environment. Pidge hovers, close, closer than they would ever be before. “It took a while for Allura and Coran to find us and Red wasn’t putting out a signal until just recently but it was really weak. Pidge and I,” he sucks in a huge breath. “We started working a device to amplify it as soon as we physically were able to. We just, we really missed you, buddy. Voltron isn’t the same big alien robot cat squad without you, man.”

Keith smiles, he’s still crying when Shiro lets him go to let Hunk pull him in. He’s so happy, still submerged in liquid gold. His voice is rough from disuse but he manages to croak out a small, “Missed you all too.”

Pidge pushes Lance into the water with a sly grin after Hunk releases Keith. They hug him and linger long enough to watch Lance surface.

“What the hell was that for!?”

Pidge sticks their tongue out.

Keith barely manages to turn his head before Lance’s arms wrap around him from behind. His grip is tight, his face buries itself in the crook of Keith’s shoulder. Keith panics, his face flushes red. He hears himself say, “I’m naked.”

“ _ Dude _ ,” Lance says and tightens his arms around Keith’s waist. “It’s been nearly a year. I’m allowed one hug regardless of your state of dress. Everyone else got one.”

“Just.” Keith places his hands over Lance’s underneath the golden film of water, leans back into his embrace. “Don’t move your hands.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance sighs into the back of his neck. “Your hair is longer.”

Keith hums. “Grows fast, made it to the middle of my back before I cut it.”

Pidge toes off their shoes, presses their feet into the lake. “Looks like you’ll need to come up with a better insult, Lance. He doesn’t have a mullet anymore,” they say.

“He’ll always have a mullet in my heart.”

Keith laughs.

“Are,” he starts and coughs, readjusts his question around the burn in his throat. “Allura and Coran?”

“They’re back on the ship. We found a relatively clear spot to land back by your lion. None of us wanted to leave each other so they volunteered to watch for signs of Galra while we found you,” Shiro explains. 

Keith feels Lance’s arms start to unravel themselves, watches him pull himself out of the water. He pulls off his jacket, starts to wring it out. “Bath time is over, bud,” he says and looks around for Keith’s clothing. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

“Um,” Keith says and looks at Shiro. “There’s a problem.”

Hunk’s eyebrows furrow. “A problem? Did you burn your clothes for warmth? Or did they get stolen by a native? What kind of natives are here? Oh god, what if they’re big. I’m imagining big and orange and angry. I mean,” he rambles. “If they took your clothes, they’re obviously not happy about you being here-”

“Hunk.”

Hunk snaps his mouth shut. His expression remains worried, his eyebrows refuse to unknot.

“Injured my leg, had to cut up my suit. My binder,” Keith says and frowns. His heart is starting to pound. Shiro’s gaze snap to his. “is ruined.”

Pidge’s eyes widen. “Binder?”

Keith nods. 

“So,” Lance asks, holding up a bundle of cloth and leaves in the hand opposite of his jacket. “What exactly is the problem?”

Keith levels his eyes on Lance, narrows them. “I have no shirt.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because I’m trans.”

“Trans.” Lance sounds out the word like it’s something foreign, curling the shape of it around his lips slow. There’s a pause as he digests it, long enough for Keith to wonder just how dense Lance truly is. “Oh,” he says and then frowns again. “Wait.”

“Does that mean you have?” He gestures to his own chest, makes a soft rounded motion that Keith nearly laughs at. It’s crude, nearly disrespectful if not for the way Lance grimaces at himself immediately afterwards. “Wow, Lance,” he says. “That was probably not something I should’ve asked. Good job me.” He takes a breath, restarts. “Sorry.”

Keith shrugs, he’s heard worse before.

“You’re still Keith, right?”

Keith blinks. “Huh?”

“Like, your name. It’s still Keith, right?” 

Keith nods. 

“And you’re still comfortable being called a boy, right?”

Keith nods again, stiffer.

“Alright, cool,” Lance says and hands Keith his jacket. “Let me know if I say anything stupid.”

Keith is dumbfounded. He expected, well, he’s not entirely sure what he expected. Something more perhaps. He’s not used to this sort of soft acceptance, used to having to fight for people to call him what he is, and now. Now he’s in space, sharing a castle ship with six others, four of whom are standing in front of him with soft smiles like they accept him. 

Nothing’s changed, he thinks as Shiro ruffles his hair and Hunk pulls him into another tight hug, squishing him against the line of shore Keith’s still leaning into. Pidge smiles at him like they know exactly what he’s thinking. 

In his hands, curled around Hunk’s waist, Lance’s jacket is still damp. Keith turns it over and over after he’s released and Hunk’s wiping his eyes clear of tears. He wonders what Lance wants him to do with it.

“Put it on,” Lance says. “At least until we get onto the ship and you can grab your own clothes.”

“What,” Keith says and clears his throat again. He can’t stop himself from smiling. “What makes you think I want to wear your clothes?”

Lance flushes and gives him a cheeky grin. “It’s your only option, hotshot. It’ll fit better than Shiro’s vest, I bet.”

Keith laughs, waves a hand when Shiro takes the rest of the group with him around the bend of the treeline to give Keith some privacy. He can tell they’re hesitant to leave him, even for just a few moments, but he assures them he’ll be quick. Lance leaves the bundle against the side of the bank.

Keith hauls himself out of the water and pulls on Lance’s jacket. It takes a couple tries to zip it up, his fingers shaky with leftover adrenaline. It’s wet, clings to Keith’s skin in a way that leaves him a little uncomfortable but the material is soft and it smells like Lance. It sits big on him, pooled around the top of his thighs. Keith wraps the leaf and wire skirt around his waist and tightens it as much as he can. He slides his briefs on last.

He’s back with the group within minutes.

They walk back to the castle slowly, Keith’s hands find Shiro’s and Lance’s. Hunk’s palm settles against his shoulder from the other side of Lance, presses them close, shoulder to shoulder. Pidge walks in front of them. Their gaze flicks back every few steps to make sure everyone’s all still there.

Keith thinks it’s a dream, that he’s hallucinating, that at any moment he’ll wake up back at the base of Red’s feet alone and tired.

When Allura and Coran greet him enthusiastically at the mouth of the castle, Keith blinks back tears for the second time in the day. They usher him into a healing pod after his first real meal of something that wasn’t rations or tree fruit; it’s solid and real and Keith almost can’t keep it fully down.

Keith comes out a day and a half later. His leg feels better, his throat hurts less when he talks, his ribs no longer pop out of his abdomen. 

The rest of the team is there, they’ve barely shifted spots, legs sprawled out on the floor of the med bay. They’re all touching, some way or another. They spring up the minute Keith wobbles out of the pod, catch him in soft hands with no words, lower him down onto the ground and just hold him.

They stay there for nearly a half an hour until Allura announces that they’re going to stay on the planet until repairs for Red can be made. She nearly makes it to the exit before Keith calls her over, voice light, and asks her to stay for a little.

Keith feels like he’s not real when he stops touching them, like he’s only a dream that’ll melt away without someone to ground him. He’s been alone for so long and when he closes his eyes he can only see red. 

Red blood, red grass. 

They move, the five of them together in a small clump because they’re afraid of being separated again. Shiro tells him it’s been like this since the first of them were found, touch-starved and attached. His hands knot the length of Keith’s hair after Hunk trims it, teasing it into a loose and shitty-looking braid. Keith loves it, loves how it feels against his shoulder blades.

It takes weeks for Keith to get used to the feeling of clothing against his skin again, he finds himself all but tearing it off every time it drags wrong. He finds the tighter the cloth, the easier it feels. Keith leaves his red jacket on the inside of his bedroom for when he can stand the weight of it again.

It takes him even longer to get used to speaking again.

“I won’t,” Pidge says, firm, as they lead the group into a room they had found shortly after coming back to the castle. They had wandered the halls looking for something, anything, while Allura and Coran scoured maps upon maps looking for any sign of the other lions. “I won’t lose another family.”

The room is small, barely bigger than their own bedrooms. The floor, padded, scoops in like a bowl. It’s decorated with pillows and blankets that have been, no doubt, stolen and carefully replicated. The back wall is entirely made of glass, bubbled out to show the weight of space. It’s gorgeous, a breathtaking view. Keith slides, overwhelmed, into the blanket bowl and tugs the others down with him. 

Lance winds his arms around the breadth of Keith’s waist, presses his head into the curl of his nape as Hunk surrenders himself as Pidge’s pillow. Shiro sits to the other side of Keith, head resting against Hunk’s shoulder. His hands skirt along the side Keith’s abdomen, soft and sure. Pidge fights to make sure no one crushes their feet. Allura lowers herself with the grace worthy of a princess into the space between Coran and Pidge. 

It’s here they tell each other what happened on the other side of the wormhole and it’s here they sleep now, more often than not, cuddled close to each other. 

* * *

Red is repaired in a month's time, Keith and Lance scrub the remaining blood away from the floor inside as Coran and Hunk fix her wiring. Pidge takes Shiro to install Green’s cloaking device into the rest of the lions.

When they attempt to form Voltron days later, Keith panics without someone to ground him. He can see them clear as day in the screen of his display but it feels off, wrong. Keith can’t stop remembering his blood smeared across the floor, his leg twisted under the dash. His hands shake on the controls and he feels like a failure when Allura directs him to breathe.

Lance cracks a joke when they land back in the castle, presses the tips of his shoes into Keith’s as Keith curls up in the control room and places his hands over his head. No one touches him; they stand close enough that he can feel their body heat as they help talk him through the stuttered beating of his heart. 

A week later, Allura stands behind Keith in Red’s cockpit, her hand curled along the top of the pilot’s chair as she directs them into formation with a quietly stern voice. They manage, just barely. She smiles at them when they land, claps her hands together and congratulates them.

The castle takes off the next day.

Their first mission is seamless, a planet’s liberation from Galra control. Keith stands in Red alone and listens to the lilt of Shiro’s voice as he leads them. They form Voltron, just once, to destroy a battleship. They expect more, once Zarkon realizes they’re back in commission.

They pile out of their lions afterward, into the small starlit room without a word. Keith closes his eyes, listens to everyone’s breathing and feels whole once more.

It takes nearly half a year for them to readjust to being together, nearly a year for them to be able to walk the castle halls alone but they still stick close, closer than they ever did before. They still fall together, back in the small room, and speak until their eyelids are heavy and they all slip to sleep. It’s easier to breathe like that.

Keith starts to wear his red jacket again, the material is just as soft as it was before but it feels better on his skin than it did when he first returned to the ship. The weight of it against his shoulders is comforting when no one has a hand braced across them. He starts to train again too but now he asks beforehand if anyone wants to come with him. 

* * *

Lance still gets homesick, moreso now than ever.

He talks, presses his hands into the glass of the window and just speaks about the things he remembers about Earth. He’s taller now, a year and a half older, a year and a half more adjusted to the vast network of space, a year and half farther from home.

Keith listens. He trades story for story and tells Lance about the things he remembers, both the happy and the sad, and lets Lance and the team, when they’re present, hold him when his voice runs dry.

Keith thinks about rain, the ocean, about the blue in Lance’s eyes and the beauty mark that sits beneath his left one. Keith finds himself looking at it a lot, keeps his gaze on it when he doesn’t want to make eye contact. 

Lance hasn’t changed much, physically, but he’s grown. He’s stopped the antagonistic comments, traded them for friendly jabs said with a smile. Keith likes them better, likes telling Lance that his jacket smells every time he steals it off the back of a chair, likes the way Lance laughs and calls him hotshot now.

Lance, Keith thinks, Lance is an easy person to like. He’s attractive, sure, tall and wiry with a nice jawline and soft hips. Pretty eyes, long legs, the kind of voice Keith could listen to for hours. His hands are always soft, skin always clear. Keith likes his personality the best, the way he’s still a tad obnoxious, the way he still flirts with everyone they meet. Lance lives for attention, seeks Keith’s eyes out whenever he throws an arm around Allura’s shoulders and crinkles his own when he gets it.

“What’s rolling around in that head of yours, hotshot?” Lance says one afternoon as he walks in on Keith training. “Other than stab, stab, block, stab.”

Keith throws his bayard up to block a strike. He stripped his shirt an hour ago, leaving him in a sports bra. His hair, still long, is pulled back in a braid. “Train with me,” he grunts and cuts clean through the gladiator the minute it drops its guard. “Need to make sure I’m still better than you.”

“Um,” Lance says, over-enunciating the m. “You were never better than me?”

Keith grins. “Prove it.”

“You’re fucking on.”

Keith discards his bayard in favour of one of the training staves. He tosses another to Lance, watches him fumble to catch it.

“So,” Lance says and adjusts his grip on the wood substitute, places his hand on a cocked hip. “How are we going to do this?”

Keith drops his weight and charges forward with a sideways swing. Lance barely manages to block it. Keith smiles, all teeth, and says, “Galra won’t give you any time to plan in advance. Give me all you got.”

“I’ll make you regret asking, hotshot.”

Lance pushes back, breaks Keith’s stance and swings, light and quick. Keith throws a foot back and raises his staff, catches the blow with his legs and moves. “First to hit or first to tackle?”

“Tackle. Unless your pretty face can’t handle more than one hit?”

Keith swings again, manages to clip the side of Lance’s leg before he arcs out wide and counters.

“You’re the one that cares more about his looks,” Keith says and grunts when Lance gets a hard jab to his side in. He steps back while Keith adjusts. “I was just trying to be considerate.”

“‘Appreciate it, babe,” Lance says as he dodges a downswing. “But I think I can hold my own.”

“Good luck. You’ll need it.”

Lance lasts longer than Keith thinks he would. He’s proud even as he knocks him onto the floor, holds his staff to Lance’s neck. 

“Okay, pretty boy, these fights aren’t really fair, you know that right?” He’s grinning. “You’re a training monster and I’m used to distance. Not to mention,” he winks. “None of the Galra are as good looking as you so you can’t fault me for getting a little distracted.”

Keith feels himself flush slightly. He smiles, presses the wooden staff into Lance a tad more before releasing him. “Say whatever you’ve got to say to make yourself feel better. I still won.”

Lance throws his arms out as Keith stands to grab his shirt. “The ice king! He melts with compliments!”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I hope you know that I’m going to test this now.”

“Do not.”

“Too late! The train has already left the station,” Lance sits up. His mouth is twisted in his trademark lopsided grin when Keith turns to face him.

Bad news, he thinks. He’s doomed.

“I’m going to flirt with you so hard.”

“ _ Lance. _ ”

“ _ Keith _ ,” Lance says and bats his eyelashes. “I think something’s wrong with my eyes.”

Keith levels him with a cold stare. Lance continues, undeterred, “I can’t take them off of you.”

“Alright,” Keith says, throws his shirt over his shoulder and turns to leave. “Bye.”

He hears the sound of Lance’s laughter follow him halfway down the hall and smiles despite himself.

* * *

It starts. 

Keith prides himself in purposefully destroying Lance’s pickup lines when he understands them.

* * *

“Did you just come out of the oven?” Lance winks at him after a particularly taxing group training session. “Because you are hot.”

“Lance, we were just training. Of course I’m hot,” Keith throws back. He pours a water bottle over his head, takes a second to revel in the cool liquid sliding down his overheated skin. He manages to catch Lance’s stunned expression as he leaves the room and considers it his victory.

* * *

Stopped in the middle of dinner, he hears a suave, “Was your father a thief? Because someone stole the stars-”

“I’m an orphan.”

“Okay, you could have let me finish.”

Keith grins.

* * *

“Guess what I’m wearing.”

Keith hums from his spot on Lance’s bed, “Jeans and a long sleeve. I stole your jacket.”

“The smile you gave me,” Lance says but it’s clipped. His face pops up from around the corner of his restroom door. “Give me back my jacket, you greedy thief.”

“Fuck you, it smells awful. I’m going to wear it forever.”

* * *

“I think it’s time for me to tell you what people are saying behind your back!” yells Lance from the other side of the hall. “Nice ass!”

Keith flips him off and keeps walking.

* * *

“So,” Lance says. They’re all seated in the small room again, feet buried between the blankets. “I think I have enough data to conclude my experiment.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you definitely look better when you’re smiling.”

“Lance,” Pidge says from the other side of the blanket bowl. “That’s disgusting and you should be ashamed.”

Lance sticks his tongue out at them, slides his cold feet up their calf. Pidge glowers.

Keith tilts sideways until his head brushes Lance’s chest. He looks up at him, watches his face turn red, and bats his eyelashes. “You should,” he pauses, playing with the sleeves of his stolen jacket. “Braid my hair. Shiro always does a terrible job.”

Shiro shoves him. “You always tell me you love it.”

“I.” Keith looks Shiro dead in the eyes as he slides into Lance’s lap. “Lie.”

Shiro mock gasps, throws his hand up to chest. Hunk places a hand on his shoulder and says a comforting, “I still like you, man.”

“Thank you, at least one of us hasn’t started disrespecting their elders.”

Keith arcs an eyebrow. “You’re only like two years older than us.”

Shiro sniffs and looks away, nose upturned.

“Sit up and turn around,” Lance says when Keith laughs. “I can’t get to your hair like this.” 

Keith obliges, his eyes slip shut when Lance’s finger start to comb through his hair.

“Just a simple one or something fancy?”

Keith hums in thought. “Surprise me,” he says like he knows the name of anything Lance does to his hair.

“You say that as if you aren’t giving Lance permission to royally fuck up your hair,” Pidge says.

“If he does,” Keith huffs. “We’ll be down a paladin and Allura will have to pilot Blue.”

“I’ll have you know, Pidge,” Lance says, waving an arm out in front of Keith. “That I’m one of seven children. Keith will not kill me because I am a master at doing hair and I take this seriously. I tried messing up my sister’s hair once and she still hasn’t let it go. Anyways.” Keith feels him start to part his hair into careful sections, twinning them carefully around each other. “I’m going to do a fishtail. You seemed to like it last time I did it.”

“That’s fine,” Keith mumbles back and wonders what exactly that is.

He can hear Pidge typing away on their laptop from the other side of the circle. They occasionally ask Hunk for input but otherwise the room lulls into a comfortable silence.

Keith falls asleep, face pillowed on the wide of Lance’s thigh, toes pressed against Hunk’s calf, after his hair is finished. 

* * *

“Tell him already, you suffering bisexual,” Keith hears Pidge says as he walks past the common room one afternoon. Unconscious, he slows his steps.

“Bringing my sexuality into this is unnecessary and wrong,” Lance replies.

“Except where it’s relevant to this conversation.”

“It is not and I will not stand for this slander. Children like you shouldn’t be allowed to speak of matters like this.”

“You’re three fucking years older than me, Lance. I’m sick of watching the two of you dance around each other. I don’t even pay attention half the time and it’s still annoying.”

“Um,” Lance says, exaggerating the m like he does when he’s being difficult. Keith can picture him closing his eyes, index finger outstretched. “There is nothing gay about one boy paying compliments to another because he thinks the other looks nicer when he smiles.”

“There is when you like him.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t need to.”

Keith wonders just what they’re talking about. 

He’s not dumb, he hears the parallels between their words and Lance’s attitude towards him but the implications aren’t clear enough for Keith to judge. He doesn’t want to assume anything. After spending so long on his own, he’s bad at reading in between the lines. It’s frustrating, honestly frustrating. Things are just better when they’re clear.

Keith walks the rest of the way to the training deck and vows to train until he can’t hear himself think.

* * *

“Hey, hotshot,” Lance whispers. 

They’re on a mission to some planet Coran went into a long-winded spiel about. Keith had listened, or at least tried to, but the words oozed out of his ears like water. It hadn’t mattered, he got the general idea. Abandoned, but crawling with Galra. Shiro had kept his commands relatively short, thankfully.

They’re planetside now, in groups. Warships litter the center of the city-like terrain in front of them, they’re looking for the biggest one, a distraction while Pidge and Hunk work to fry the ships’ internal systems. Shiro had offered to stand guard for them while they worked

Lance sticks close to his side and keeps his eyes peeled for signs of Galra patrols. “We should get to higher ground. It’ll be an easier vantage point to plan our point of entry.”

Keith nods. It’s better than any plan he would have come up with.

They heave themselves onto a fire escape, stick close to the railing and each other, and climb. The roof of the low hanging building is ribbed with something like metal, it flexes underneath their footsteps and feels dangerously close to caving in. It holds.

Lance sinks down onto his stomach, motions Keith to lower himself as well. The view in front of them is clear, reminiscent of the castle’s invisible maze.

“I think,” Lance starts and pauses. “I think it would be better for me to stay up here. I can guide you around and provide cover from up here.”

Keith frowns and considers it. It’s a good idea, a great one almost, but it leaves him alone inside with no backup. He can do it, Keith is confident he can just as he’s confident in Lance’s ability to navigate him. He trusts Lance, trusts him with his life.

“What do I do when I get inside?” he asks.

“I mean, we’re just supposed to be a distraction. Coran said these ships were just docked here, no prisoners. We don’t technically have to be careful.” Lance hums, “You could just go in, guns-a-blazin,’ y’know if you had a gun.” He winks.

“But,” Lance says while Keith reaches for his bayard. “You’d probably sound an alarm and get yourself surrounded.”

“What if,” Keith says, thinking aloud. “We had a way of getting a map of the inside? Remember back on Balmera, Coran and Allura guided us around the planet and warned us of incoming Galra using heat signatures or something like that?”

“That would be helpful,” Lance says. “But Pidge dropped sensors in the planet’s tunnels so we could do that.”

Keith frowns again, decides there’s no harm in asking. “Pidge,” he says, clicking on his comm. “Is there anyway to get a feed on the inside of the ship?”

“ _ Should be a way to do it _ ,” Pidge sounds, tin over the helmet’s speakers. Their face pops up on the inside display. “ _ We’re already in the meat of the hardwired system trying to find a way to jam communications so downloading the specs of one shouldn’t be too difficult. Why? _ ”

“Lance and I need to split up to get into the main ship, won’t have direct backup.” Keith replies.

“Need to make sure pretty boy here doesn’t get himself overwhelmed without me and my excellent shooting skills,” Lance pipes in. “Figured I’d try my hand at navigating, not that I need the experience. I’m already wonderful at it.”

“ _ Lance _ ,” Pidge sighs. “ _ You’re going for the one in the middle, right? _ ”

“Yeah.”

“ _ I’ll send the ship’s layout and the some surveillance feeds over to you. Stay safe, you idiots. _ ”

The comm video clicks off with a quiet buzzing noise. Lance turns to Keith and smiles, grabs his hand and kisses it. “Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to your lovely face.”

Keith flushes red and wrenches his hand back before standing. “I- I’m leaving now. Focus on keeping me safe.”

Lance salutes. “Won’t keep my eyes off your nice ass for even a second.”

* * *

Lance’s directions are clear and concise. Keith appreciates them, finds them easy to follow. A few times he’s led the opposite way, hears Lance swear and scramble to redirect him. 

Nearly like having a GPS, Keith thinks, if it were six feet tall and prone to making mistakes.

There’s an impressive moment where Keith finds himself jumped by a Galra sentry after a wrong turn. His hand tightens on the grip of his bayard before a hole appears clean through it. Lance’s smug grin blips onto his display. He winks, the video feed cuts, and he continues navigating.

They make it inside with barely any conflict. Keith takes a moment, flattens himself against the curl of a corner and just breathes. 

Lance hums. “ _ Let’s have a little fun. Take a left at the next intersection, there should be a vent just waiting for you to crawl into _ .”

Keith lets Lance lead him into various rooms in the ships. Their plan is simple: drop down, incapacitate any guards present, and smash whatever Keith can put his bayard through. It’s a relaxing endeavour, watching his sword shatter through the various displays.

“ _ Pidge said that they got frustrated sorting through code so they want to rig this ship to explode _ ,” Lance informs him over the direct comm link as Keith digs through the ventilation systems. 

Keith pauses. “What do I need to do?”

“ _Check out the engine room. There should be a panel in front of the crystal._ _Pidge’ll send you some code to download into it._ ”

“Where’s the next drop?”

“ _ Should be the third grate down after you turn the corner _ .”

Keith crawls, ignoring the pain in his kneecaps. He scans the room, empty thankfully, before pulling the grate off and making his way into the waiting room.

“Pidge, Lance,” he says in the comm. “I’m in.” He looks around, the room is sparse, crystal glittering an ominous purple in the middle of the room. A lone console stands in front of the opening just like Lance said. 

“ _ Is there some place to input the code? _ ” Pidge says.

“Yeah.”

“ _ I’ll send it over. Just download it into the system and then run, I’m going to detonate it remotely _ .”

Keith and Lance make it back to their lions before Pidge detonates the warship. The explosion manages to catch a good chunk of the surrounding ships, they disperse the remaining ones in their lions. Allura radios in to tell them the system they’re currently in is Galra-free. 

They choose to wait out the night in case of incoming backup. 

The team piles into the blanket bowl that night and sleeps, light and on alert. Keith curls his hands around Hunk’s bicep, tucks his head into the crook of Shiro’s shoulder, and slides his toes against the line of Lance’s spine; he feels Pidge pressed against his back. It feels right.

By midday, there’s no retaliation. The pilot the castle out of the galaxy as quickly as they can. 

* * *

“I used to really hate you,” Lance says when Keith finds him on an overhanging bridge a week after the mission. He’s facing outwards, hands braced on the railing. Keith doesn’t respond, just situates himself on the floor, back braced against the cool metal behind him. Lance continues, “They wouldn’t shut up about you. It was always Keith this, Keith that. Why can’t you be more like Keith?”

“I used to stare at the back of your head so much, I memorized the cut of your hair. I could pick you out of a crowd anywhere. I mean,” he says and grins but doesn’t turn his head. “I still can, just for different reasons now.” 

“I kept waiting for you to turn around and just acknowledge me, like, you were just this untouchable ideal I kept striving towards and even when you dropped out, I just kept hearing your name. Iverson wouldn’t stop holding it over my head, day after day, that the only reason I was even a fighter class pilot was because you, Keith, the best pilot in our class, had left. I was only an afterthought, only there because you weren’t.” He sighs, places his cheek in his palm. “I recognized you, the night we found Shiro, that’s why I ran in there. And you-” 

Lance exhales a shuddered breath. “You didn’t even know my name. I had built you up so much, had you held on this unattainable pedestal, and you only knew me as ‘ _ that cargo pilot. _ ’”

He sounds raw, resigned, his shoulders relaxed and empty. Keith wonders how long he’s been wanting to say that.

“I,” Keith starts. Lance isn’t looking at him, doesn’t even glance his way. Keith focuses his gaze forward, peers out the opposite railing. “I wasn’t lying, back then. I remembered you, it was hazy but I did. We had literature together, you had pretty eyes and a nice smile. I liked the way you always laughed at your friend’s jokes. Never learned your name, didn’t seem important at the time, but I was always so jealous of how easily people seemed to like you.”

“I was never good at stuff like that, Shiro was the first person I met who I really considered a friend but he had left the month before. I threw myself into the program to try and distract myself. That’s all I did, studying, running simulator tests over and over until I couldn’t think anymore.” Keith frowns and hugs his knees close. “I virtually shut down after they told me the Kerberos mission had failed. I couldn’t take it, ended up telling Iverson to go fuck himself and walked out.”

“And then you found that shack out in the desert?” Lance asks. He doesn’t move from his spot, doesn’t spare Keith anything more than a passing glance, the first of the night.

“Yeah,” Keith says and nods. “Spent fourteen months there. I went out to town every other month or so, but I spent most of that time alone. Followed my gut feeling all the way to the cave where we found Blue.”

“God,” Lance shudders. “I couldn’t imagine being alone for that long. What did you do?”

“Survived. I used to talk to myself just to hear the sound of someone’s voice. It was, I think, like the first place I really ever felt like myself. I miss it sometimes but,” Keith sighs. “I like being here, with everyone. It’s nice hearing everyone talk, I like knowing that all of you are safe.”

“I started to get used to all of you,” Keith says. He rests his cheek against his legs and closes his eyes. “And then I was alone again on that planet. It was hard, I missed everyone so fucking much. I missed you the most, I think.”

“Me?” Lance’s voice sounds startled. Keith can hear him shifting, feels the warmth of his body settling beside him. He nods.

“You’re so loud. Without it, everything sounds so empty. I missed our petty fights, your stupid flirting, the way Pidge would make gagging noises every time you opened your mouth.” Keith smiles. “I missed the way you could make everyone smile. I think, without that Pidge would’ve left and the team would’ve totally fallen apart. You’re the glue that holds all of us together.”

“I never knew you felt that way about me, Keith.” Lance laughs. Keith cracks an eye open and shoves him. “I’m going to act even more obnoxious now.”

“Please don’t.”

Lance shifts beside him as they lull into a comforting silence. Keith’s heart beats, one two, one two, inside his chest; he’s so aware of it, of everything. He can feel the electric line of Lance’s body, can feel the air between them. It feels intimate, much more intimate that their conversations before the wormhole, much more intimate than piling into the small blanket-filled room with everyone else. This moment is private, just the two of them.

“I don’t think I hate you anymore,” Lance says, leaning back on his arms. His legs are outstretched in front of him, toes poking the opposite railing.

“You don’t think?”

Lance grins. “Your presence doesn’t make me froth with rage anymore, I consider that a win.”

Keith laughs. “What an awful way to admit that you’re fond of me. Watch out, next thing you know, you’ll start having feelings for me.”

Lance’s face softens, blue eyes bright against the dim track lighting as he looks at Keith. “Would you be upset if I did?”

“What, if you liked me?”

“Yeah.”

Keith hums, considering. He’d like it, he really would, if Lance liked him back. He’s gotten used to it, his crush, thinly veiled because Lance is an affectionate person. He can’t say it though, can’t tell him how much he’d enjoy Lance returning his feelings. “I suppose, there are worse things in this universe than you liking me,” he says instead and watches how Lance raises a hand to his chest in mock-offence.

“You should be lucky to receive such lauded affections from me.”

“I should?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, dropping his hand back down beside him. “You should.”

Keith can feel his heart start to kick up even more. He gets the insinuation in Lance’s words but it’s not clear enough. Keith doesn’t understand it completely, worded like that. He needs something more concrete, more direct. His hands shake. “Do-” Keith breathes, long and shaky. He doesn’t know if he wants to ask for classification but he steels himself regardless. “Do you?”

Lance blinks. “Do I what?”

“Do you... y’know?” He waves a hand, hoping that Lance will understand. Lance grins, sly, and tilts his head. Keith frowns, exhales on a long frustrated sound. He can feel his face starting to turn red with embarrassment. “Have feelings for me.”

“I’ve been flirting with you for months, Keith.”

“You flirt with everything.”

Lance laughs, loud and musical. He runs a hand through his bangs. “Not anymore really. Just you, nowadays.”

“Yes or no, Lance,” Keith sighs. He closes his eyes, buries his face in his legs. “I need you to tell me outright or else I’ll end up over-analyzing it and convince myself that I’m just projecting my feelings onto you.”

“Keith,” Lance says. “Keith, look at me.”

Keith shakes his head and buries it deeper into his legs.

“Of course, I like you.”

The confession is certain, matter of fact. It’s overwhelming but Keith is happy, so happy to hear it finally spoken in the air between them. He takes a long breath, let it circle around the weight of his legs as he exhales. “Me too,” Keith mumbles, half muffled.

“What was that?” His tone is teasing, Keith wants to punch him.

He lifts his gaze to glare at Lance. His face is warm, hot flush settling along his cheeks when he sees Lance’s sappy grin. “I said,” he enunciates, sits up straight. “Me too.”

“You should,” Lance leans towards him. “Tell me. I need you to tell me outright.”

His face is on fire, hands shaking. Keith can feel his heart beating wildly in his toes. “I- I like you.”

“I like you too,” Lance says and his smile softens again. He looks fond, so disgustingly fond of Keith that it’s borderline obscene. “A lot, like a whooole lot.”

Keith shoves him.

* * *

 

“ _ Lance _ .”

“ _ Pidge _ .”

They’re staring each other down from opposite sides of the blanket bowl when Keith and Shiro walk in. Hunk looks towards them with pleading eyes while Coran and Allura discuss something that sounds like training regiments. Keith tunes it out.

“What’s going on here?” Shiro questions, settling down next to Hunk by the window. Keith slides down in the space between him and Lance and hooks his ankle around Lance’s. He gets nothing in response other than a small tap on his pinky toe.

“Pidge is upset,” Hunk supplies. “Because Lance won’t tell Keith.”

Keith frowns and leans forward to peer around Shiro. “Won’t tell me what?”

“That he likes you,” Pidge replies, sharp, and continues to glare at Lance. Keith laughs.

“He already did,” he says which seems to get everyone’s attention. The room goes silent, Keith can practically feel Lance’s smug grin from beside him. 

He points at Pidge. “I  _ told _ you!”

“You did not!” Pidge yells back. They round their gaze on Keith. “When!?”

“Uh, last week or so?”

“Keith asked if I had ‘ _ feelings for him _ ,’” Lance says, punctuating it with air quotes. “And I told him we were madly in love with each other.”

“He told me that he had been flirting with me for months like that was supposed to mean anything,” Keith says and crosses his arms.

“I had  _ only _ been flirting with you for months,” Lance replies, offended. “Not my fault you didn’t catch on.”

“Actually, it is? You’re a very affectionate person, Lance. How the hell was I supposed to know the difference?”

“Sorry, buddy,” Hunk chimes in. He gives Lance a pitying look. “But I’m going to have to side with Keith on this one. I don’t know if you forgot, but the kid was completely alone for like all of his life. There’s no way he would just magically up and realize that your pathetic attempts at flirting meant you liked him, no offence Keith.”

“None taken, big man.”

“Especially,” Hunk continues. “When you have a poor history of flirting with anything capable of higher thought processes.”

“Ugh, whatever!” Lance throws his arms up, winds one around Keith’s shoulder, pulling him in close. “Point is, I told him.”

“Finally,” Pidge mutters. “Does that mean you’ll stop fucking talking to me about your mushy feelings?”

“Um, let me think.” Lance brings a finger up to his chin in mock-thought. “No? Yeah, no way. I’m going to bother you all the time with my  _ disgusting feelings _ .”

Pidge throws their head back with a long drawn out groan.

“Tell me again?” Keith hums, rests his head against Lance’s chest and looks up at him. He can feel Lance starting to grin, sly. “In front of everyone so they know we aren’t lying.”

Pidge glares at them.

“Lance, Keith. Please don’t,” Shiro says and frowns. It doesn’t reach his eyes, Keith can tell he’s happy for them.

“Lance, please do.” Lance tugs him closer until they’re pressed chest to chest and Pidge is gagging. Keith pushes up on his arms immediately, red faced and grinning. “Oh, Keith,” he says, over dramatic. “My heart yearns for you!”

“You’re okay, I guess.”

Lance gasps. He throws his other arm loosely around Keith’s shoulder. “Hey,” he says, quieter. “Was that alright?”

“What? Your lackluster confession?” Keith asks, knows that Lance knows what he’s talking about instead. He lowers himself so that he’s against Lance’s side again, pulls him so that they’re facing. He curls his palms into Lance’s jacket, uses his elbows to keep their torsos from touching. Keith smiles, soft, as Lance knocks their foreheads together. “I liked it better before, it had more of an emotional rawness.”

“Tell me if I ever do something you’re not comfortable with, alright?”

Keith nods.

“Pidge,” Someone says. It might be Hunk but Keith is barely paying attention not when Lance brushes a piece of hair out of his face, looks at him like he means the entire universe. “I can’t believe you encouraged them to tell each other. Now they’re going to be gross all the time and it’s all your fault.”

“It’s better than watching them dance around each other like idiots. Don’t tell me Lance talking to you about his gross crush didn’t get old after the first few months.”

“You have a point, I guess, but still.”

“Ah, young love,” Coran pipes in from his seat by the door. Keith blinks an eye his way, watches as he twirls his mustache between his fingers. “Back on Altea, making direct eye contact was considered to be old way of proposing your longing for a deeper bond. As you can imagine, there were quite the misunderstandings born from that.”

“I believe Father did away with it years before I was born,” Allura says. “People had blood duels in the streets because of it.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Blood duels?”

“Oh yes.” Coran sits forwards with a sparkle in his eye. “The honoured tradition of blood duels. Often used for problem solving, one can declare a blood duel on anyone. Granted, usually, they must be accepted with agreed terms from both parties but people liked to twist the rules around so that they could declare them on anyone. They’re quite simple, first party to draw blood wins. People had sick ways of winning them. For example-”

“Blood duels aside,” Allura says, cleanly cutting Coran off. She clasps her hands together. “We congratulate the two of you on resolving your bond. As I understand, Earth courtship works much differently than it did on Altea. Please don’t let this new attachment hinder your work as paladins of Voltron.”

Lance puffs out his cheeks, refusing to turn his head towards her. He threads his fingers in Keith’s hair in an act of rebellion. Keith smiles.

“I think it’s a good thing,” Shiro interjects. “It’s better than when Lance would start fights with him. A lot healthier too.”

“And an added bonus of not having to watch Keith get jealous whenever Lance tries to flirt with anything sentient,” Pidge says.

“Yeah, that too.”

“I  _ just _ said, earlier in this exact conversation, that I only flirt with Keith now,” Lance says, loudly. “I’m a one Keith man now.”

“That’s gross,” Pidge replies with a gagging noise. “And I fucking doubt it. You’ll die without flirting.”

Lance ignores them, chooses instead to place his palm on Keith’s cheek and says, “Dude,  _ babe _ . We have so much fucking power now.”

Keith leans into his touch, slightly giddy. “How so?”

“The more mushy we get, the less they want to be around us.”

“I’m going to vomit,” Pidge moans.

“That’s my job.” Hunk pats their back.

Keith laughs.

Shiro places a hand against Keith’s shoulder blades, pats them once, twice. He’s smiling. “Try to keep it PG around everyone, guys.”

Lance hums, Keith can practically feel him tasting the statement. “No promises.”

* * *

He’s lying in Lance’s bed for the third time this week, curled up in the jacket Keith stole hours ago straight from the source himself. Shoes discarded at Lance’s prodding (“ _ No shoes on my bedspread, hotshot. I don’t care if you were raised by wolves, I don’t want to sleep on space dirt _ .”), Keith huddles deeper against the warm blankets.

Lance is off somewhere, Keith hadn’t bothered to ask where, only came here because he felt safer wrapped up in Lance’s scent. It lingers on the pillows, on the blankets, on the jacket Keith zippers closed.

They’ve been dating, ‘ _ space-dating _ ’ according to Lance who insisted the word space was absolutely necessary, for upwards of a month and a half. Keith’s not exactly sure how long, it’s easy to lose track of time without a sun for reference, but it’s nice, really nice. Keith likes it.

Keith likes Lance, likes the beauty mark by his eye, the lopsided smile he gives when he’s being particularly obnoxious, the way Lance respects his boundaries, the way he makes him feel real. He likes Lance, likes everything about him and it’s terrifying. Keith’s never done this before, navigated a relationship like this. The intimacy involved is nerve-wracking. It doesn’t come natural to him like it does to Lance. 

They haven’t made it farther than cuddling, holding hands as they walk the halls of the castle, but Keith’s heart hurts every time they touch. 

Overwhelmed, he presses his palms into his eyes and wonders if he’s doing this right.

The door opens with a click-whir, the lights flicker, brighten just slight. Keith can hear it close behind him.

“Keith?” 

Lance’s voice is soft, concerned. His steps arc closer to the bed, Keith feels the mattress shift next to him as Lance sits. “Are you okay?”

“I think.”

“You think?”

“Lonely,” Keith hiccups, rolls to slot his face in the sliver of space next to Lance’s kneecap, feels him place a gentle hand on the curve of his back. Lance hand is warm and comforting, even through layers of cloth. “Smells like you in here.”

“You’re welcome to come find me anytime.”

“I know,” Keith says. He gets it, he really does, but it’s hard. He’s spent nearly his whole life surviving. It’s hard to remember he’s got a family to fall back on now. “I’ve-” he pauses, listens to Lance breathe. The hand on his back rubs in slow, soft circles. “-just. Never done this before.”

“Just talk to me,” Lance says. “That’s all this is. Well, I mean, no-” He frowns. “-that’s not all this is. There’s usually a lot more involved, like touching and kissing ecetera, ecetera. But, in my experience, good communication is really the most important part.” Keith can feel his hand speed up in time with the growing cadence of Lance’s voice. He turns his head, peeks his eyes around the gentle curve of Lance’s thigh and sees his brows furrowed. “Right now, I think. I think setting boundaries is where we’re at?”

A small smile graces Keith’s face. “You’re rambling.

“I’m nervous.”

“Me too.”

Lance inhales, exhales. Keith watches his shoulders relax, slight. “Like I said before, just talk to me if there’s something you’re not comfortable with. I’ll try to avoid it until you’re ready.”

“And if I’m never ready?”

“Then it never happens,” he says, matter of fact. “I’ll try my best to do the same.”

“And if I decide I don’t like something?”

“Then we never do it again.”

Keith shifts onto his back, makes Lance brace his hand against the bedspread instead, and blinks up at him. He makes it sound so simple, easy, like learning to breathe, like he isn’t offering up the one thing Keith’s never been able to grasp. He threads his palm up around the curve of Lance’s ear, pulls him down until their foreheads touch, eyes closed. 

“I think,” he says and steadies himself against the stuttered beating of his own heart. “I think I want you to kiss me.”

“Are you sure?” Lance whispers back.

“Yeah.”

It’s light, the pressure of Lance’s lips against his when he finally leans down to kiss Keith. Light and smooth, a nice contrast to his own chapped ones. Lance lingers long enough for Keith to push back slight. It’s new and different, nothing to write home about but he likes it all the more.

“I think you might want to invest in space-chapstick,” Lance says when they part.

“You don’t need to put space in front of everything now that we’re out here.” Keith laughs. His eyes flutter open just enough to catch on the sappy lilt of Lance’s smile. Infectious, Keith finds himself echoing it. 

“I think I do.” He moves, leaning down so his words brush the corner of Keith’s mouth. “Can I?”

“Yeah, again.”

“This,” Lance says in between a kiss and a half. “We’ll be alright.”

Keith hums an approval, pressed against the swell of Lance’s lower lip. His hand moves to tangle itself in his hair. 

They’ll be alright, Keith thinks, in the castle armed with flying space lions fighting a war they can’t afford losing. He’ll be alright, he thinks, now that he has this, a family, has Lance arced over him with a smile so big it could light a small galaxy. In this moment, despite everything that’s happened, they’ll be alright he thinks and pulls Lance in for another kiss.

“We’ll be alright,” he parrots back and he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> breathes, i, uh, i love found families. it's my favourite trope. i mean, perhaps it's a weird byproduct of being raised as an only child in a one parent household (shout out to my dad for being a great guy and dealing with my trans ass lmao) or maybe it's just bc i only found a group of friends i really clicked with until high school but? i just, love the idea of finding a group of people and slowly finding them become more and more important to you. 
> 
> anyways, this is probably the most self-indulgent fic i've ever written. just 12k of pure garbage


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